The Billionaire's Dirty Secret

"Bring me another, but make it a double this time," Emerson said, sliding his empty glass toward the bartender.

"Rough night, Mr. Lanka?" the bartender asked, already reaching for the expensive bottle of Macallan.

"You have no idea. Just keep them coming, and I'll make sure your rent is covered for the month," Emerson replied, leaning his weight against the polished wood of the bar. He didn't look at the man; he kept his eyes on the amber liquid swirling into his glass.

"Coming right up. Anything else I can get you?"

"Peace and quiet, but I’ll settle for the booze for now," Emerson muttered. He took a long, burning swallow, feeling the alcohol hit the back of his throat with a welcome sting. The bass from the club’s speakers rattled his ribcage, a constant, thumping reminder that everyone else in this room was having a better time than he was.

He watched the crowd through the haze of cigarette smoke and strobe lights. They were dancing like the world wasn't ending, like they didn't have fathers who looked at their hard work and saw nothing but a nuisance. It was nauseating.

"Is the whiskey that bad, or is it just the company you're keeping?" a voice drifted over from the other side of the circular bar.

Emerson froze, his glass halfway to his lips. He turned his head slowly, his gaze locking onto a pair of sharp green eyes. The stranger was wearing a gray suit that looked a little lived-in, a stark contrast to Emerson’s crisp Armani. He looked annoyed, his mouth set in a thin line as he watched the dancers with the same disdain Emerson felt.

"The company is fine. It's the circumstances that are trash," Emerson said, finding his voice.

The man in the gray suit arched an eyebrow. "Circumstances usually are. Especially at ten-thirty on a Tuesday."

"You look like you've had a day yourself," Emerson noted, letting his gaze linger a moment too long. There was a shared frequency between them—a mutual frequency of frustration. It was the look of a man who had been told 'no' one too many times.

"Understatement of the year," the stranger replied. He didn't look away. "I’m just here to drown out the sound of my own thoughts. Turns out, the music isn't loud enough."

Emerson felt a sudden, sharp jolt of interest. It wasn't just the booze talking. He signaled the bartender again, pointing toward the man in the gray suit. "Put another Macallan on my tab and give it to him. He looks like he needs it more than I do."

The bartender nodded and moved down the bar. Emerson watched as the man accepted the glass, his green eyes narrowing in confusion. He lifted the drink, tilting it toward the light to inspect the color before taking a cautious, small sip.

"You're a long way from home, aren't you?" the stranger asked, his voice raised to carry over a transition in the music.

"What